


Sweet Silver Bells

by GaylamityJane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellamione Cult's Christmas 2020, Christmas Eve, Christmas Smut, Discord: Bellamione Cult, F/F, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orphan!Hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaylamityJane/pseuds/GaylamityJane
Summary: A lonely Hermione enters a pub on Christmas Eve. She gets more than she bargained for.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 15
Kudos: 186





	Sweet Silver Bells

Hermione discovers The Violet Hour during a brisk winter’s night; a cupboard of a pub squeezed in between a row of antique shops on a narrow, snow-fallen byway of Islington.

Despite the name, she finds nothing resembling violet upon inspection. In reality, the pub’s interior is a cozy splattering of rich warm tones. An oiled maplewood bartop stands to her right. Brown leather armchairs are arranged around a roaring fireplace to her left. Every surface is edged by spruce garland entwined with clear twinkle lights and cherry red poinsettia blossoms, serving as a not-quite-gentle reminder of how alone she will be on Christmas Day.

With a weary sigh, Hermione unwraps her knitted scarf and peels herself out of her pea coat, stuffing her gloves in the pockets and hanging the damp garments up beside the entrance door.

Smooth jazz renditions of festive holiday songs filter throughout the room, their distinct lack of vocalized lyrics making them all the more bearable to listen to. Although, as nice as the music is, it’s worth noting that there doesn’t seem to be many listeners around to hear it. Apart from herself, the only people Hermione catches sight of are a dark-haired barmaid and a small cluster of middle-aged women sipping on mulled wine at the far end of the bar.

“Hello.” Hermione takes a seat at one of the empty stools, realizing a half-second too late that she hasn’t the slightest inclination as to what she wants to order. “Erm... Do you have any recommendations?”

The barmaid—having been resting her elbows against the counter—straightens to her full height. She’s quite tall and, admittedly, very attractive; sultry dark eyes and long hair swept up in a loose ponytail, with stray strands of ink-black curls framing her face.

“I can think of plenty,” the woman responds. “The real question is whether or not you have anywhere to be come morning.”

Hermione narrows her eyes. “Why would that be the real question?”

The barmaid’s plum-painted lips quirk. “Because anyone who drinks my recommendations usually finds themselves in places they shouldn’t.”

Hermione folds her hands atop the counter. She’ll play along. “I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, so in theory, I suppose there are no places that I shouldn’t be.”

The barmaid’s smirk widens, looking extremely amused and only mildly impressed by the rebuttal. “You say that now. You may be whistling a different tune later on.”

Despite her teasing, the woman relents to Hermione’s whims all the same—rinsing out a clean glass coffee mug to prepare one of her ‘recommendations’. Hermione watches with fascination as she sprinkles two barspoons of demerara sugar into the bottom of the mug, followed by three jiggers of a caramel-colored liquor from a custom-labeled bottle with the Violet Hour logo painted across it; declaring the spirit, quite simply, as **_“Yule Rum”_**. 

Her fingers are remarkably long and thin, and Hermione finds her eyes drawn to the multitude of silver rings she wears. They glint in the light as she pours hot water from an electric kettle into the glass coffee mug and uses the handle-end of her barspoon to stir the concoction until the sugar is dissolved. She then garnishes the drink with a clove of star anise and a cinnamon stick, and slides it across the bar top. 

Hemione can’t help but notice that her fingernails are neatly trimmed and painted a maroon color that is only a few shades darker than the chunky knit jumper she is donning.

“Should I start whistling now?” Hermione jokes lightly, clutching the heated glass mug with both hands. The barmaid chuckles—a smooth, melodic sound that caresses Hermione’s ears like audible silk—prompting her to indulge in the first sip.

The heated liquid washes over her tongue and Hermione closes her eyes, humming at the taste. Sweet, warm, liquid butterscotch tempered by the slightest hint of anise, which then slides toward a flavor note that’s closer to toasted marshmallow. It is remarkably delicious, and the heat immediately melts the residual chill from Hermione’s body, her shoulders lowering to a sag as soon as she swallows that initial mouthful.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispers, clutching the mug as if her life depends on it. “That’s… This is the best thing I’ve tasted in ages.”

The barmaid grins rather smugly, tapping the tips of her fingers against the bartop. Hermione’s gaze is drawn, once again, to her maroon-painted nails. “Some say there’s nothing better than a mug of hot buttered rum this time of year.”

“Is it your favorite?”

“Mmm…” The barmaid squints as she considers the question. “No. My favorite is single malt whisky on the rocks. Lagavulin if it’s available.”

“And if it’s not?” Hermione asks, tilting her head.

“Then Laphroaig.”

“And if there’s no whisky at all?”

The barmaid scoffs, looking visibly offended at the very notion. “Then I leave.”

“You leave?” Hermione prompts with a laugh. She takes another sip of her hot buttered rum and licks the excess liquid from her lips. “What if there’s something better than whisky?”

“Oh… Oh, you naive little thing.” The barmaid shakes her head, stray black curls swaying amidst the low lighting. She places featherlight fingertips on Hermione’s forearm—for the briefest of seconds—before retracting them. The touch is so gentle that it leaves goose pimples in its wake. “There is nothing better than whisky.”

“Nothing at all?” Hermione challenges, causing the barmaid to chuckle in that airy, careless way she did before. The sound leaves Hermione feeling warm and fuzzy all over.

“Well…” The barmaid replies, smirking devilishly. “Nothing better to _drink_ , in any case.”

Hermione snorts into her mug, spraying tiny droplets of her drink across the otherwise clean counter. Her cheeks heat up, but she’s still snickering as she absentmindedly uses the sleeve of her sweater to wipe up the spilled liquid. “Sorry…” 

“Please.” The barmaid’s dark eyes roll good-naturedly. She gently swats Hermione’s hands away, replacing the sweater sleeve with a hand towel. She then jerks her head in the direction of the cluster of middle-aged women at the other end of the bar. “You should see the mess that lot leaves me every night.”

Her voice must be a little too loud because one of the women—a petite redhead with dark eye makeup and a heavy Glaswegian brogue—calls down the bar. “Haud yer wheesht, Bellatrix!”

The barmaid doesn’t hesitate to reply, her devilish smirk returning tenfold as she turns her head to the ginger. “Oh? Shall we bring up the mess from _last night_ then, Fiona?”

Naturally, Hermione has no idea what the mess from last night entailed, but she suspects that it was something quite interesting from the way the ginger-haired woman—Fiona—ducks her head at its mention, freckled cheeks flaming a bright pink tinge that’s half-hidden by her hair.

The barmaid—Bellatrix—juts her chin out, dark eyes glinting as they bore into the curtain of Fiona’s ginger tresses. “That’s what I thought.”

Neither one of them care to elaborate on the subject, so Hermione thinks it best not to ask. Instead, she focuses her attention on her newfound favorite drink, allowing every sip to warm her body down to its very bones, and doing her best to ignore the chatter that ensues from the group.

Briefly, Hermione wonders if she might have Scottish heritage somewhere along the line. If she has an aunt with the same Glaswegian accent as Fiona. If there’s a distant cousin or two from the Orkney Islands. If one of her grandparents has lineage from the Highlands. 

It’s yet another question to add to her growing list of questions, so she gives herself a silent reminder to check the archives for Scottish relatives. And while she’s at it, perhaps Irish as well. Her year-long search through the birth records of England and Wales has given her little to no information. Any leads that she’s stumbled upon so far have turned out to be dead ends, leaving her even more frustrated than she was in the first place.

“Alright there, pet?”

“Hmmm?” She’s pulled away from her thoughts, gaze snapping up to meet sultry dark eyes.

Bellatrix tilts her head, expression softening. “Do you always spend holidays looking as if someone’s kicked your dog?”

“No,” Hermione huffs a laugh. She runs a hand over her face as if the gesture will cause all of her frustration to dissipate. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m not a huge fan of Christmas, to be honest.”

“Not a huge fan of Christmas?” Bellatrix offers a sardonic gasp, leaning forward with her elbows resting on the counter. “But what about the overbaked fruitcake and those wretched paper hats you get with your Christmas crackers?”

Hermione grins, taking the last generous pull from her hot buttered rum. “Sorry, no.”

Bellatrix shakes her head and offers a soft tsk of disapproval. “You’re barking mad.”

“It’s just another day.” Hermione shrugs, licking her lips clean. “Nothing special.”

“Ah,” Bellatrix nods in understanding, propping her chin in the palm of her hand. And then, after a moment’s pause, she snorts. “You must be great at parties.”

Hermione laughs. “I’ll have you know that I am wonderful at parties.”

“So long as they’re not Christmas parties?”

“Precisely!”

“Eugh.” Bellatrix shakes her head, a playful, lopsided grin on her lips. “Pitiful.”

Hermione responds an octave or two higher than necessary. “Me?! _I’m_ pitiful?!”

Bellatrix’s grin grows at the reaction. 

“Yes,” she replies, grasping Hermione’s empty mug. “I don’t like Christmas either—” She begins to take the same steps of preparation as before, mixing her new customer a second hot buttered rum. “—But I pride myself on being fun at all parties, Christmas or otherwise. Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean everyone else has to hate it too.”

“Why do _you_ hate Christmas?” Hermione prompts.

“Why do you?” Bellatrix counters.

“Because I’ve spent the last twenty-seven of them alone.”

“...” Clearly, the response catches the barmaid off guard; pausing right in the middle of pouring hot water from the electric kettle into Hermione’s mug. But just as quickly as she stops, she recovers altogether. Her movements maintain a purposeful air of casualty about them, once again stirring the contents of Hermione’s drink until the sugar is dissolved and adding a fresh clove of star anise and cinnamon stick to garnish at the end.

As she places the new mug of hot buttered rum in front of Hermione, she nonchalantly states, “You can spend the twenty-eighth here.”

Hermione’s brow furrows. “… I appreciate that, but I didn’t mean—”

“It’ll just be me,” Bellatrix adds, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t go home for Christmas.”

“Why?” Hermione blows at the steam of her fresh cocktail. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine,” Bellatrix waves off her apology. “I haven’t spoken to my family since I divorced my husband and used the proceeds to open up the pub.”

“You had a husband?” Hermione asks, seeming far more surprised by this turn of events than the fact that Bellatrix is also the owner of The Violet Hour, which actually makes quite a bit of sense if her mixology skills have any say in the matter (and they obviously do).

“Yes. For quite some time, actually,” Bellatrix places a cube of crystal-clear ice into a whisky tumbler, followed by a generous portion of Lagavulin. “We were very young—only about nineteen or so. The marriage was unofficially arranged between our parents.”

Hermione’s nose wrinkles at the thought. “Was he a lord?”

“ _He_ seemed to think so,” Bellatrix sighs into her drink. “But no. My family is quite wealthy. His family is also quite wealthy. I suppose it seemed like the logical thing to do at the time.”

If it’s possible, Hermione’s face scrunches even more in disgust. “Please tell me there wasn’t a _dowry_ involved.”

“Only a measly summer estate and a few sheep.”

At this rate, Hermione half-considers that she may be telling the truth. Until Bellatrix winks, reassuring her that the barmaid is, in fact, joking.

“Blimey.”

“Mmmm…” Bellatrix hums in agreement, swirling the ice around in her glass. “It’s quite alright. Twenty three years seems like a long time, but we barely spent a moment of it together. He wanted the divorce just as badly as I did.”

“That’s preposterous,” Hermione inwardly flinches as she considers the prospect of being so unhappy for that long. “Why didn’t you end it sooner?”

“Rodolphus wanted to keep up appearances,” Bellatrix shrugs. “Until he galavanted off to Barcelona with Yaxley.”

“Yaxley?”

“Corban Yaxley. I think they’d planned to move to the Netherlands, but then Spain legalized same-sex marriage. And truthfully, Roddy’s always favored warmer climates… and tapas.”

“Oh! So they…?”

“Back in the spring, yeah. He invited me to the reception, but I’d just invested the divorce proceeds into this place.”

Hermione takes another cursory glance around the room, drinking from her hot buttered rum as she slowly spins in her chair. She notes the cardboard boxes, still untouched, in the far corner; the polished liquor cabinets on either side of the fireplace mantle without a single bottle sitting on their shelves; the stacks of chairs propped against the wall behind the cluster of middle-aged women who are finishing off their shared pitcher of mulled wine.

Even still, she finds herself asking a question that has nothing to do with the pub’s work-in-progress status. “Why violets?”

“Hmm?”

“The pub,” Hermione clarifies. “Why did you name it the Violet Hour?”

“Ah, yes,” Bellatrix places her tumbler of whisky onto the bartop and cradles her chin in both hands, black curls framing prominent cheekbones as she meets Hermione’s gaze. “Since the 600s BC, violets have served as a symbol of feminine affection. The Ancient Greek poet, Sappho, wrote a piece called ‘I Have Not Heard a Word From Her’, where she described her lover wearing a tiara of violets. So to honor Sappho, lesbians in the mid-20th century would give violets to women they were wooing, indicating their sapphic desires for them.”

Hermione listens intently, cupping her mug against her chest with both hands. She finds herself drinking a bit faster than before; a warm fuzziness taking hold of her chest, though she’s unable to decipher whether it’s from the rum or the ease at which Bellatrix speaks.

“So the Violet Hour is a lesbian pub?” Hermione asks, brow furrowing.

Bellatrix snorts derisively. “You really didn’t know?”

Hermione shakes her head. “I had no idea. If I did… Well, I’d probably have visited six months ago rather than waiting until now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bellatrix shrugs, taking a long sip of her precious whisky. “You’re visiting now.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Christ.”

“What?”

Bellatrix narrows her eyes, clutching her tumbler to her chest with one hand. “You have learned so much about me tonight… and haven’t even bothered to introduce yourself.”

“Pardon?”

“You have yet to tell me your name, pet.”

“Oh—Have I really?” Hermione frowns, trying if only for a moment, to think back on the things they’ve discussed. How could she have forgotten to introduce herself?

“Unless you like the thought of me using terms of endearment, _pet_.”

“It’s Hermione. Though… I can’t say I mind the terms of endearment.”

“I can’t say I mind using them.” Bellatrix grins, sharp and dangerous, before she downs the rest of her single-malt whisky in one impressively large gulp. She then turns to the gaggle of middle-aged women at the other end of the bar. “You lot ready to head out then?”

“Yes, Bella,” One of the women—a frizzy-haired blonde with horn-rimmed glasses—replies, as she and a thin brunette woman help a very intoxicated Fiona out of her chair.

“She alright?” Bellatrix asks, nodding to the ginger. In spite of their tiny spat, something close to concern settles into her facial expression.

“Oh, she’ll be fine,” Horn Rims reassures, even as she hooks Fiona’s arm around her shoulders. “Just had one too many glugs, haven’t you, Fi?”

“Too many,” Fiona nods in agreement, only to groan aloud at the motion.

“Get her home safe,” Bellatrix says, her tone firm enough for it to be an order rather than a request, especially as she continues, “I mean it, Rita! Straight home!”

The group of women wrestle themselves and Fiona into their winter coats, scarves, and gloves with a haste that implies they’ve already done this quite a few times. The bell atop the entrance door chimes merrily as they file out into the cold, frost-bitten air, each saying their farewells and Happy Christmases as they go.

Hermione doesn’t realize how much background noise their chatter accounted for until it’s no longer present, leaving her and Bellatrix alone with nothing more than the crackling of the fireplace and the soft jazz notes of Carol of the Bells emitting from the PA system.

“So... Are they regulars?” Hermione asks, aiming for some semblance of politeness as she takes a sip from her hot buttered rum.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” Bellatrix counters back.

The answer leaves Hermione’s lips before she can process it. “God, yes.”

Bellatrix reaches over the counter, pressing two fingertips beneath Hermione’s mug and gently raising it until it’s at Hermione’s mouth, silently encouraging her to finish the rest of her drink. It’s cooled down enough to take larger gulps from, but she has enough time to finish it without too much haste, watching as the barmaid goes about locking the entrance door, extinguishing the fireplace, and shutting off all the lights apart from the garland.

Hermione places her empty mug on the bartop just as Bellatrix walks past, giving her bicep a gentle squeeze. “C’mon then.”

Opposite of a tiny bathroom, a locked door that Hermione previously presumed to be a storage cupboard reveals a private staircase that leads to Bellatrix’s flat. Much like the pub beneath it, her abode is a cozy affair. Hermione catches sight of a dark leather couch with flannel-printed throw pillows and a wooden coffee table with a small tree set on top of it. But she’s guided into the bedroom before she can properly assess the living space—and then Bellatrix is kissing her so passionately, she forgets that she wants to assess anything at all.

Bellatrix kisses similarly to the way she speaks; every movement careful and deliberate. Fingers that Hermione has spent the better part of the night marveling now cradle her face, thumbs brushing across the hollows of her cheeks. A plum-colored mouth suckles at her bottom lip, causing her to gasp just enough to allow Bellatrix’s tongue entrance. It’s warm and still a little slick from the whisky as it caresses Hermione’s mouth until all the younger woman can taste is bonfire and the last remnants of her own butterscotch-flavored drink.

It’s rather fitting. Much like the hot buttered rum, Hermione finds herself thoroughly intoxicated by Bellatrix’s kisses, wanting to drink up every last ounce of them until they’re gone.

“Have you done this before?” The barmaid whispers against her lips.

Hermione pauses, face flushing. “Erm, a few times… But they were quite a while ago.”

Bellatrix hums as if that’s the response she’d been expecting all along. However, she’s quick to reassure Hermione with another soft, dizzying kiss. “That’s okay, love. We’ll go slow, hm?”

Grasping Hermione’s hands within her own, Bellatrix backpedals toward the bed until her knees collide with the edge of the mattress, leaving her no choice but to sit down and gently guide Hermione into her lap, her shapely thighs straddled by slim legs. 

The next kiss is even softer, a warm tongue licking up at Hermione’s top lip as long, silver-ringed fingers drop down to the back pockets of her jeans, where they make a home for themselves and knead at the flesh of the younger woman’s backside.

Instinctively, Hermione’s hips roll forward at the squeeze of her ass, grinding into Bellatrix’s lap. A hitched breath ensues, though Hermione isn’t entirely sure which one of them is forced to take it; both of their mouths soft and languid as they press against each other, tongues exploring every crevice as if they have all the time in the world. Hermione suckles at Bellatrix’s bottom lip, Bellatrix palms at the fleshiest parts of her ass, and they repeat the process until both of their mouths are swollen and bitten.

“Gods,” Bellatrix whispers, a low husk against Hermione’s reddened mouth.

“I know,” Hermione murmurs back, heart beating against her chest like a jackhammer.

Seemingly satisfied with her handiwork, the barmaid pecks the corner of Hermione’s mouth, just once, before she trails her lips along the younger woman’s jawline and down her neck, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses against every inch of accessible skin.

Hermione cranes her neck, lips parting with a breathlessness she hasn’t felt in a few good years. 

Snogging Ginny was nothing like this—all fumbling fingers and clumsy pawing at each other until sheer enthusiasm eventually gave way to small measures of success. Bellatrix is quite a different experience altogether; equipped with a deliberately gentle touch that somehow manages to set every one of Hermione’s nerves alight. The barmaid’s hands palm and squeeze at her ass, lips suckle the sensitive skin at the juncture where neck and shoulder meet, and Hermione finds herself melting into a metaphorical and physical puddle.

She doesn’t notice that her hips have picked up a steady rhythm of gyrations against Bellatrix’s pelvis until the older woman emits a throaty groan and grips at them until Hermione is forced to stop moving completely. “ _Jesus Christ._ ”

Hermione blushes, but she still can’t stop the words from leaving her mouth, as ragged as they are quick. “No, but I’ll take that as a vote of confidence.”

Bellatrix chuckles against her neck, a rush of whisky-warm breath washing across the skin beneath Hermione’s earlobe. “Someone’s humble.”

“Naturally.”

The barmaid takes this quip as her cue to urge things along, rolling Hermione onto the mattress. She uses their newfound position to suck hickies into Hermione’s throat and wriggle her hands beneath her long-sleeve shirt. Maroon nails scrape along the flat plane of Hermione’s abdomen until they reach her sternum, thumbs smoothing along the skin that separates ribcage from breast. 

Dark eyes flick upward, meeting Hermione’s gaze in a silent plea for confirmation. It only takes a brief nod for the older woman to continue—pulling Hermione’s shirt up beneath her chin so that Bellatrix can mouth at one of the hardening peaks beneath her bra.

In an impressively swift motion, the barmaid peels her shirt up over her head altogether, tossing it onto the nightstand before she makes short work of Hermione’s bra, unhooking the front clasp with little more than a brief flick of two fingers.

From the way the older woman’s eyes darken at the sight of her, Hermoine expects to be ravished.

Bellatrix licks her lips, her gaze hungry and appreciative as it inspects every centimeter of visible skin, starting at Hermione’s eyes and ending somewhere near her hips. Hermione can easily imagine Bellatrix wearing the same expression as she presses some equally breathless woman beneath her weight (Perhaps a petite ginger with a Glaswegian brogue); long, slender fingers working furiously between quivering thighs until she’s satisfied enough to retract them.

However, Bellatrix doesn’t ravish her or pin her down. As promised, she goes slow; both hands squeezing at the curves of Hermione’s waist as her mouth latches onto a pebbled pink nipple and gives it a firm, decisive suck that sends a current of pleasure directly to Hermione’s core. Hermione gasps at the sensation, back arching so as to give Bellatrix more—more of anything and everything she might want. But the older woman takes her time, licking and sucking the same nipple until it’s puffy and sore, and Hermione is left clutching the bedspread in a white-knuckled grip, struggling to control the airflow to her lungs.

After a long few minutes of what could arguably constitute as torture, the barmaid finally wraps her lips around the other nipple. 

Hermione chokes out a groan that falls somewhere in between pleasure and misery. “Bellatrix…”

“Mmm?” Bellatrix hums around the hardened peak, caressing it with a hot tongue in a way that causes Hermione’s thighs to rub together.

“Please.” Hermione tries her best to not whine. She doesn’t fancy herself a beggar and, were it not for the ocean of damp heat pooled within the crevice of her thighs, she might have even refrained from saying anything at all. “You’re driving me mad.”

Bellatrix gazes up at her through thick black lashes, lips curling into an impish smirk as she gives Hermione’s nipple a hard, drawn-out suck in response. 

“Fuck.” Hermione’s breath hitches sharply, thighs squeezing together on instinct. 

Thankfully, Bellatrix takes some semblance of pity on her. She tugs at Hermione’s nipple one last time, pulling back from it with a soft pop before she drags her lips up Hermione’s neck instead. A warm mouth dabs deliberately slow kisses up Hermione’s pulse point, to her earlobe, where blunt teeth graze soft, pendulous flesh. 

An actual whine emits from Hermione this time around, and Bellatrix chuckles, a low-pitched tone that only serves to drive the younger woman even madder. “Eager, are we?”

Hermione laughs, soft and winded. “You have no idea.”

“Well…” Bellatrix murmurs in her ear, thumbs tracing intimate circles over Hermione’s hip bones. “Not no idea.”

The closer Bellatrix’s touch gets to the apex of her thighs, the harder Hermione’s heart hammers against her rib cage. A fact that, truthfully, frustrates her. It isn’t as if she’s never done this before. She and Ginny had plenty of sex when they were together. At one point, they’d actually considered themselves to be rather good at it. But their breakup had been even more memorable than their relationship—if only for its grandiosity—and Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to let anyone else touch her after that. Until now, of course; the loneliness that has collected in her chest for the last five years converging with two mugs of hot buttered rum and a determination to not spend another Christmas holed up in her flat, gorging on mini mince pies from Tesco. 

She tries not to look too desperate when Bellatrix thumbs the front of her trousers open, but the facade crumbles as soon as the barmaid is slipping a hand beneath her waistband. The tips of Bellatrx’s fingers are featherlight as they brush downwards, their movements gradual despite the fact that they discover Hermione’s clit several seconds faster than expected.

Hermione sucks in an audible breath. 

Bellatrix maintains direct contact, but her fingers come to a halt. A touch that’s barely there, but still noticeable enough to not feel like nothing. “How long has it been, love?” she asks, nuzzling into the speckled discolorations of Hermione’s neck.

“Gosh…” Hermione murmurs, struggling to not squirm. “Five years?”

“Mmmm.” If her answer surprises Bellatrix, the barmaid makes a point in not showing it. Her response is, instead, to return where she’d left off; mouthing and teething at hickeys that have already half-formed. While sucking at a particularly dark bruise on Hermione’s throat, she begins to rub slow, firm circles over the most intimate part of Hermione; a part that has been neglected for so long, the younger woman has begun to question its functionality.

And yet, the longer Bellatrix’s touch persists, the more Hermione feels herself begin to unfurl. A delicious pulse takes hold, indescribable and, at once, all too familiar. Something warm and tight coils within the pit of her stomach, tightening her grip on the bed sheets until one of the corners is tugged free from the mattress.

When Bellatrix brings her fingers to a sudden halt, Hermione nearly shouts. But then the barmaid is peppering those same, open-mouthed kisses down her front, forgoing her swollen nipples in favor of sucking hickeys along Hermione’s abdomen and shucking off her trousers. As she does with most things, Bellatrix takes her time, purposely ignoring the younger woman’s frustrated groans as she dips her tongue into her navel and then smirks at the bodily jerk it causes.

By the time Bellatrix sinks her teeth into Hermione’s inner thigh, the younger woman is ready to start crying from the exasperation of it all. When Bellatrix had said they’d go slow, she hadn’t realized just how slow the woman intended, or else she might’ve asked to hasten the pace.

The first touch of Bellatrix’s tongue causes Hermione’s breath to catch in her throat like a secret. The second, a maddeningly slow swipe across slickened folds, lifts her hips clear off of the bed. Only for Bellatrix to shove them back down and fold both arms across them, effectively pinning the younger woman to the mattress so that she can continue her unhurried exploration of the space between Hermione’s thighs. Bellatrix ensures to draw it out for as long as possible, elongated strokes that stop every time Hermione begins to quake beneath her touch.

Until finally, Hermione is ready to sob. “Bellatrix, _please_ …”

She feels tears prick her eyes when the barmaid pulls her mouth away completely, dark eyes glinting with that same devilish aura she’d witnessed throughout the night. Even as Bellatrix’s tone drips with saccharine sweetness as she asks, pressing a barely-there kiss to Hermione’s mound, “Please what?”

“Please _fuck_ me,” Hermione huffs. “Until I can forget everything about this bloody holiday!”

It’s the only prompting Bellatrix needs; her tone silky-soft as she presses another kiss, this time in the crevice where Hermione’s thigh meets her hip. “Only because you said please.”

After what feels like a century of build-up, the barmaid props Hermione’s legs across her shoulders, maroon-lacquered nails digging into the fleshiest parts of Hermione’s thighs as she returns her mouth to where it’s wanted most. The pace she maintains is steady; the strokes of her tongue firm but as deliberate as every other intention she’s had tonight. Bellatrix coaxes Hermione to a gradual climax, waiting until the younger woman is gasping and writhing to draw Hermione’s sensitive bundle of nerves into her mouth.

Even after Hermione begins to see stars, Bellatrix continues. She doesn’t rush Hermione, but she doesn’t stop either; drawing out orgasm after orgasm until Hermione begins to question whether or not she’s physically capable of withstanding it. Part of her (An admittedly large part) considers the possibility of suffering cardiac arrest on Christmas Eve with the most attractive barmaid nestled between her legs, using her mouth in ways that Hermione never thought possible.

Hermione considers counting, but she loses track sometime after the third wave of euphoria takes hold and her gasps become guttural; clutching onto the sheets for dear life as Bellatrix alternates between slow, firm, earth-shattering sucks and purposeful swipes of her tongue that are nearly as lethal as they are soothing. Bellatrix only relents when Hermione begins to push at her shoulders, hips jerking against the mattress in a desperate attempt to escape her mouth.

Even still, the barmaid presses a calculated kiss to her swollen clit and grins smugly at the violent twitch that ensues.

“You…are…” Hermione gasps, soaked with sweat and drowning in aftershocks. “...relentless…”

“You’re welcome.” Bellatrix grins wider, running a gentle fingertip across the throbbing nub. She chuckles as Hermione catches her hands, thoroughly overstimulated and eager to remove every source of possible contact between the barmaid and her battered bundle of nerves.

Bellatrix crawls back up Hermione’s body, quirked lips brushing against a slender shoulder as she wraps her arms around the younger woman’s waist. Hermione snuggles into her embrace, hands clutching the barmaid’s forearms as she rides out the aftershocks, twitching and trembling.

They remain quiet for a long time, staring into the comforting darkness that envelopes them both from the ongoing festivities of the outside world. Where the luckier few are no doubt celebrating joyously with loved ones, eating their overbaked fruitcakes and donning their ridiculous paper crowns without a single care as to who sees them. Like imbeciles. Or victors.

Hermione swallows thickly, the frustration of her defeats waning for the first time since she began the search for her family. In its place, bone-deep exhaustion settles in and she whispers, soft and hesitant. “... Happy Christmas, Bellatrix.”

Bellatrix hums, already half-asleep from a job well-done. But her response does occur; a quiet murmur that echoes from the back of her throat. “Happy Christmas, Hermoine.”

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

Hermione comes to with the remnants of Bellatrix’s touch still lingering between her legs, and faint, soft snoring echoing behind her ear. Gently, she wheedles herself free from the barmaid’s embrace, careful enough to not wake her from her well-deserved slumber. Once she’s free to sit upright, Hermione stretches her arms above her head until a satisfying pop ensues, and allows last night’s antics to playback in her mind.

She hasn’t slept this soundly in… well, she can’t even remember.

Daylight illuminates Bellatrix’s flat enough to discover a bathroom connected to the bedroom. Hermione helps herself to a quick shower, scrubbing herself clean with a bar of blackberry and bay soap that makes her inhale several times before she’s finished using it. Bellatrix’s handiwork is already evident; hickeys of various shapes, sizes, and colors marking her throat and abdomen. But Hermione finds that she quite likes the look of them, even if they’ll be covered by her clothing most of the time. They feel private and intimate; two things that Hermione hasn’t personally experienced in quite a few years.

She changes back into last night’s attire and tiptoes out of Bellatrix’s flat altogether, pausing on every step that groans beneath her weight. Her instincts are torn between avoiding the inevitable overstay and clinging to something she’s never really been given. But for now, she decides to leave the decision up to Bellatrix, and gift her with something special for the holiday. Something that will no doubt serve as a reminder for the night they’d spent together.

Surely, assuming anything else would be rather ridiculous.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

Bellatrix wakes up just as morning turns to afternoon. She’s only half-surprised to discover an empty bed, a used shower, and no Hermione to be found. Such is the revolving door that is her love life; always the first to get picked for a fun romp beneath the sheets, but completely disregarded for anything more serious than a good time. It’s fine. She’s long since accepted how other women see her. How other women treat her. That’s why she prides herself on ensuring they remember her name; why she gives them no other choice in the matter.

With little regard for the previous night’s events, Bellatrix gets ready for the day. She purposely digs a different bar of cold-pressed soap out of her nightstand drawer and takes a very hot, long shower until every lingering note of blackberry and bay is replaced by white tea and sage. She tugs on an emerald cable knit jumper and wipes her nails clean before repainting them a shiny new dark green. Wrestles her curls into a ponytail and carefully slips on all of her rings; from the plain thin bands to the crescent moon sat on an embossed starry band, gifted to her by Andy.

Just before she descends the stairs, she fetches an unopened bottle of fat washed butter rum from the storage cabinet where all of her custom-labeled specialty liquors reside. A free round of hot buttered rums for every customer should tempt pub-goers into visiting, despite the holiday. And if that fails, there’s always her regulars. Fiona and Rita can down half of her supply on their own, nevermind when the whole group is present and drinking.

As she opens up the pub, Bellatrix thinks about the holiday season, the possibility of making a gingerbread liqueur, and everything else to distract her from the name ‘Hermione’. 

It isn’t until Bellatrix heads behind the bar that she sees it—a bouquet of dark purple violets, wrapped in brown parchment and sat on the countertop. She plucks a thin card from the twine, dark eyes reading over the phone number scrawled across it in looping penmanship.

Slapping the card against her palm, she approaches the pub’s only phone; a mint green rotary mounted to the wall. It rings once, twice, three times before the recipient picks up.

Bellatrix forgoes the niceties. 

“You have five seconds to get your sorry arse back to the pub, or I will find you and drag you here myself. I’m not spending another holiday alone, and neither are you.”

Having said her peace, Bellatrix hangs up as soon as her warning is dished out. She reads the phone number written on the card again, still slapping it against the palm of her hand. And then she chuckles to herself, low and throaty.

“...I’ll show you relentless.”


End file.
